The Rest is Riddles

Chapter 4: The Void

Life was always easier after you'd accepted you were going to die.

That was Nikolay's theory, anyway. Hope destroyed happiness—it made you think you might have a chance, made your mind go in futile directions trying to optimize that tiny thread of maybe, until you second-guessed your actions, tied yourself in knots with the what ifs and the hows and the if onlies. He'd had hope, slivers of it back in Sengilach. The thought that he might be free of his Oath, the constant fear of a misstep—coupled with the pain of the Oath-scar—had driven him almost mad.

In a way, he was almost thankful to the avtorka. Sometimes resignation was the easier burden to bear.

He was positively cheerful as they soared over the mountains—bordering on deranged, if he was being honest with himself—and he could tell his mood was unnerving the avtorka, which made him even cheerier. She looked half-dead, despite her earlier victory. One of her boots was wet with mud, and her magic burned low in her chest. She shivered as they rode.

He was still surprised his earlier teleportation had gone so wrong. He'd meant to put Jane to sleep before moving them, but something—he suspected one of Lidea's protective spells—had stopped him from doing so. Perhaps this—combined with the rather self-indulgent spell he'd placed on his clothes to make them waterproof—explained why he'd burned through the innkeeper's magic so quickly. But the waterproofing spell was worth it so as not to be shivering in the frigid thin air. The cloud cover promised chilly skies for the rest of the day, and perhaps more rain.

"We could always stop at another town," he said brightly. "I could top up on magic, and you could warm up by the fire. You know how much I'd hate for you to catch cold and die before we reached the border."

She glowered at him, trying to suppress a shiver, and he took it as a kind of victory when she set her jaw and refused to reply.

"Of course," he continued blithely, "if you want to get warm, there are other ways as well."

She stiffened, her back going ramrod straight, and he laughed cheerfully in her ear. "Magic, obviously. Was there something else you were thinking of?"

He glanced down at the valley below.

"Oh look," he said. "A burning town. I suppose we must be near the war front."

"Please stop."

"Stop what, dear avtorka?"

"Stop—this. Whatever you're doing. I'd rather you went back to sulking and glowering at me, instead of—"

"Making pleasant conversation?"

She frowned at him over her shoulder, suspicion narrowing her eyes to slits.

He smiled. "I have simply resigned myself to our inevitable deaths. You ought to try it sometime—it's wonderfully liberating."

He sobered, however, as they moved farther into war country. Pillars of smoke rose from ransacked towns and villages. Some of the fires had set light to the nearby forests, and the air was acrid and gray. Near several villages, enormous excavations like giant molehills dotted the ground. They were not really molehills, of course—Nikolay knew they were made by sudok bursting from the ground to devour everything in their path.

As they rode onward, Nikolay began to notice broad swaths of destruction marring the landscape. They made erratic linear paths, similar to the devastation left by a tornado. Except, whereas tornado paths were typically brown, these trails were a lifeless, unnatural gray.

The avtorka had noticed them too. She directed the wyvern toward one of the corridors of destruction, and they stared down at it from a cautious distance. The earth below was gray, bleak, and devastated, devoid of trees, shrubs, or greenery. Not even the barest hint of life lingered there.